


An Unscheduled Session

by TwelveLeagues



Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014)
Genre: BDSM, Dildos, Identity Porn, M/M, Nude Photos, Online Dating, Uniform Kink, Wattsvert the awkward online dom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:22:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21945064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues
Summary: Javert has checked and rechecked the force’s social media guidelines and he’s pretty sure this isn’t against any rules. But itfeelslike it should be.Javert’s had a tough day and wants to unwind with his anonymous online submissive. What could go wrong?
Relationships: Javert (Les Misérables)/Original Character(s), Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 10
Kudos: 82
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	An Unscheduled Session

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



It’s been a long day. Thenardier and his gang are in the cells and the night has settled, leaving Javert with a roiling in the stomach that doesn’t normally linger after his work is done. It was a quick bust and almost a rewarding one. They brought in four career thieves, which will certainly look good on Javert’s record. But there’s a memory that won’t leave him.

Thenardier and his boys had someone on his knees: A man in a shabby coat and sturdy boots. A man so strong it took three of them to hold him down. Javert only caught sight of his narrow shoulders and bowed head before looking away. And then the man was gone. Could have been anyone. Could have been a coincidence. But it wouldn’t be the first coincidence in Javert’s career.

It’s too late to deal with that now, though. Javert’s off duty and in need of relaxation. He pulls out his phone and messages his regular guy as the squad car carries him home. “I want you online in an hour.”

The guy, who calls himself creepingvine, is offline. That’s not unusual. He’s told Javert in the past that he’s kind of a luddite. If the guy has a phone, he doesn’t use it for messaging strangers online. But an hour is usually enough notice for creepingvine. He doesn’t seem to spend much time out of the house.

Javert has checked and rechecked the force’s social media guidelines and he’s pretty sure this isn’t against any rules. But it _feels_ like it should be.

creepingvine never gives much away. He says he values his privacy, which suits Javert just fine. They don’t do names or identifying details or even video chat. He’s never seen a full-body shot or a photo of the guy’s face. Instead, creepingvine sends close-ups at Javert’s request: A nipple, not pierced yet despite Javert’s occasional threats and promises. A darkening bruise, self inflicted at Javert’s request. A dick, half full and half-covered by a hand, the pose unusually shy for a pervert trawling a website as tawdry as LeatherLife.

Back home, Javert fixes himself a strong coffee, peels off his coat and loosens his tie. He’s got the luxury of not using a webcam with creepingvine, which means he can stay in uniform for their session. It’s not strictly professional, but the uniform is who he is. He feels more himself when he wears it than when he’s naked or dressed down or even on the rare occasion that he’s strapped himself into a harness for a night out. The tie, the leather, the starched cotton: They’re all part of who he is and how he fucks.

And right now, adrenaline still pumping from the chase, he needs to fuck. There’s an image that settled in the back of his mind as he fastened the handcuffs around Thenardier’s wrists. He can’t stop thinking about the absent victim’s lowered head, his slim wrists and the bend of his neck. The way his breath came in short, quiet sounds. And, crucially, how quickly he vanished.

Perhaps it was a memory, or perhaps it was just imagination set off by something Thenardier said to save his own skin. Either way, it’s an irritation, needling Javert and in need of addressing. A question without an answer — not one he can track down right away, at least. Half an hour with a stranger on the other side of a screen will have to do for now. 

He settles down at his laptop and presses his palm against the front of his pants where his dick is already getting excited. It twitches in response. Javert pulls his hand away, hisses through his teeth and checks his messages. 

It’s been thirty-five minutes and creepingvine still hasn’t replied. The silence is troubling. It fills Javert with a nasty, familiar anxiety. Maybe this isn’t an appropriate way for an officer to be using his off-duty time? He grits his teeth, irritated as always by the discomfort of uncertainty. His dick isn’t hard enough to distract him yet and there’s no one to bark virtual orders at, just his ordinary room and the silence and the memory of a silhouette that vanished into thin air.

While he waits, he opens up his file on creepingvine. The guy says he has tattoos, but he’s always careful not to send Javert any photos of his body that show them. It should be a red flag — who’s this paranoid if they don’t have anything to hide? But a part of Javert is grateful. This way he can fill in whatever missing details he likes. He can imagine the sharp points of a crown etched onto a vulnerable neck and the jagged lines of a cobweb. He doesn’t want a concrete image or a conclusive answer. If he’s wrong, it’ll ruin the fantasy, but if he’s right it’ll ruin it too.

It might be ruined anyway. His usually-reliable internet submissive still hasn’t responded. Javert’s surprised by how dismayed he is. 

He’s almost tempted to log off. That’s what a strict dom would do. Lay down the law. If you don’t turn up on time, you don’t get off. (And if creepingvine is to be believed, he doesn’t get off outside their virtual sessions. Not that creepingvine is to be believed.) If Javert had a real-life play partner, he’d do it. But that’s out of the question, so Javert is forced to be flexible.

Besides, Javert wants to get off. And somewhere along the line, he let his other contacts — the ones whose faces he’s seen, whose voices he’s heard, even the one who crossed state lines to go to a leather bar and then patiently sat in a dark booth with him all night while Javert nursed a single measure of bourbon and hoped no one would recognise him — fall off his radar. There’s something dangerously appealing about creepingvine. In his weaker moments, Javert catches himself imagining a real tendril of green ivy, slender and flexible and stronger than it looks, winding around and around his ankle. 

The ivy isn’t the stupidest thing Javert catches himself imagining when he thinks of creepingvine, so that’s what he allows himself to dwell on. It’s a good reminder, anyway, not to let himself be caught up in these games. It would be all too easy to let them get under his skin. Javert doesn’t allow himself regular sessions either. But he expects a quick response when he wants creepingvine online, and the man bends to suit Javert’s preferences in this as he does in everything else.

Or at least, he does most of the time. Today Javert’s been kept waiting way too long.

“Are you there” Javert types into the chat window, as though it might summon a man who isn’t online.

“creepingvine is currently offline and did not receive this message,” the chatbot chirps back.

Javert pinches the bridge of his nose. Yes, this is insubordination, but it’s also out of character. creepingvine doesn’t push his limits or try to top from the bottom. As long as Javert doesn’t push too hard, he’s more reliable than most of the time wasters out there.

“I feel better when someone’s telling me what to do,” he once wrote to Javert when they were feeling each other out. And then, moments later, “no, that’s not true, I hate being told what to do.” And then, “my point is, I’m trying to learn to be good.”

Javert, who wasn’t used to negotiation that strayed beyond the traffic lights system, replied, “you suck dick good?”

“Never done it in real life.” And that had to be a lie, coming from a pretty guy like that. Even Javert had sucked some dick and he’d hardly done anything. But there was something sweet about the lie. It made Javert think of big brown eyes. He moistened his lips and typed. 

“You’re going to learn.”

There was a long silence after that. Javert could hear his own breath, soft and too fast in the empty room. After what felt like an eternity, a reply blinked onto the screen. “I guess I am.”

Javert clicks into his folder of creepingvine photos, reaching down to unbutton his pants with his free hand. It’s an encrypted file, more to protect himself than the anonymous body in the pictures. He’s spent hours filing every picture: There are folders filled with photos of rope marks and burn marks etched into flesh, photos of creepingvine’s spread thighs and swollen balls. There’s a whole folder for shots of his mouth stretched around the long, thick dildo Javert had delivered to a locker on the south side of the city. Javert pulls out his dick and strokes it as he scrolls, imagining slick, wet suction. creepingvine’s getting better at deep throating if the photos are anything to go by.

He flicks back to the LeatherLife window to check for a response. There’s still nothing. Javert hisses through his teeth. Fine. Have it your way. He’ll just have to find another way to scratch the itch.

He returns to his collection of creepingvine folders and scrolls to the bottom, where his system gets murkier. Filenames are less specific down here: _Animal_ , _Eyes_ , _Hungry_. He opens up a folder marked _Guilty_ and scrolls down again, his heart speeding as he scans past thumbnail after thumbnail until he reaches the folder marked _24601_.

Javert shouldn’t be doing this. It’s embarrassing, to squint at photos that are impossible to identify and try to spot a feature he hasn’t seen in years. But there’s something about the angle of creepingvine’s jaw in one photo and the bend of his neck in another. There’s the careful way he always ducks his head to avoid the camera capturing his face: It reminds Javert of Monsieur Madeleine and the way he dodged the press whenever he could. None of it adds up to anything — not enough to justify a conviction or even enough to justify trying to track creepingvine down. But it’s enough to keep Javert wondering. And on some nights that’s just what Javert needs.

He strokes himself slowly, eyes moving over the photos. creepingvine only sends him pieces of a puzzle: Disembodied wrists and shoulders. A tight crop around a gagged mouth. The beard is right and the lips are right, but there must be dozens of men in this city with those lips and that beard. 

There’s a photo he saves for nights like this. It’s a full-body shot of creepingvine on his knees, silhouetted against a light that washes out the details and leaves only a tantalising outline. God knows how he managed to take the shot by himself, but Javert’s glad he did. The build is perfect: The curve of the skull and the hunch of the shoulders. There’s a defensiveness in the posture, as though the guy knows he’s making himself more vulnerable than he should. And he’s not wrong to be wary. Maybe, Javert thinks, building up a rhythm, when he finally tracks down Jean Valjean, he’ll have him kneel like that. Just to compare.

The thought makes him groan and he clicks back to the LeatherLife messenger. Still no reply from creepingvine.

“Gping to discipline ypu when you come pnline” he types, one-handed, and it doesn’t matter if he’s sending the message to creepingvine or Jean Valjean or Thenardier’s absent victim. 

And then, “you know i expect a prompt rtesponse”

And then, “sorry typos”

He hits a shortcut and jumps back to his photos. Opens up the folder marked _bound_ and finds the shot of a slim wrist carefully wrapped in a red ribbon. There’s a clumsy bow just over creepingvine’s pulse point and his hand is turned up and spread open. _merry christmas_ is carefully written in marker pen across the palm. 

Javert closes his eyes and he can see the kneeling man from the photos, his wrists bound with at the small of his back and his head bowed. He’s tattooed in all the places he doesn’t let Javert see and Javert’s breath comes in slow, careful huffs as he runs a thumb over an inked patch of skin. He makes the man’s dick swollen and helpless, and leaves him aching for a touch that may or may not be granted.

Javert’s breath comes faster. They’re in the station house now, and it doesn’t matter whether it’s Jean Valjean or creepingvine or the kneeling victim from Thenardier’s heist. Javert curls one hand around the back of the man’s skull and steps closer. He teases the man’s lips apart with his thumb. And yes, this is the mouth he’s been searching for: The mouth that spills out lies without a second thought. The mouth that begs and promises and cajoles. The mouth he’s been training to stretch around him just like this. 

He pushes in and creepingvine takes it. Again. Jean Valjean chokes a little. Harder this time, and now there are tears in the corners of the gentleman’s eyes. Whoever he is, he doesn’t pull away or struggle. Javert tightens his hand around himself, fumbling for some lube. His breath echoes too loud in the empty cell. 

Valjean’s mouth would be sweet around him. Warm and attentive. Too well-practiced to be the quiet mayor who kept to himself in Montreuil. Too shy to have the experience Javert would expect of a convict. He’d be like Javert, Javert realises with a choking breath. Neither innocent nor experienced. Already ruined, whether anyone ever touched him or not. Javert comes with a shuddering breath. 

The station house fades out of his awareness. Javert leans back in his desk chair, spinning a little in place as his breath slows and a warm satisfaction seeps through him. He can still see creepingvine crouched between his spread legs, looking up at him with Jean Valjean’s dark eyes, his dick appealingly hard and obediently untouched. creepingvine never begs the way Javert would like him to — the way he’s heard Jean Valjean beg on other people’s behalf. Instead he presses an open-mouthed kiss to Javert’s inner thigh. Javert likes to imagine him pliant and grateful, even in someone else’s afterglow.

Javert fumbles for a handkerchief and mops up the mess he’s made, grimacing at the splatter of come across the edge of his desk. It’s not pleasant to clean up after himself, but it keeps him honest. It wouldn’t suit him, to be waited on hand and foot like the doms in the videos. He doesn’t need those one-night stands and anonymous chatters who he’s allowed to drift away.

Still, he sometimes thinks it might be nice to have someone to tuck him back into his pants. Someone to curl up against in bed instead of just a name on a screen and a cross-referenced collection of photos.

creepingvine is still offline. Javert clicks back to his profile, eyes moving automatically to his bio. And even though he knows it off by heart, it’s as though he’s reading it for the first time:

 _Been through a lot and I’m still adjusting to a world without locks and chains. Maybe you can help out? No names, no faces, no real-life meetings. Peace._

Maybe he’s asleep, Javert thinks. Maybe he’s out of the house for once. But now the excitement of the chase is wearing off, there’s nothing but a cold anxiety pooling in his belly.

He doesn’t _know_ creepingvine, not really. The guy might as well be a stranger. But he’s… Javert can’t find the words for it. Instead that dumb thought is back: A green tendril wrapped around his wrist and another looping around an upper thigh. He’s suddenly, irrationally afraid that if he looks around he’ll find the dusty walls of his apartment overgrown with crawling ivy. 

_I hate being told what to do_ , creepingvine said to Javert once, but that’s not quite true. He can take it when it’s coming from the other side of a screen. Sometimes he loves it. When Javert gets the tone just right, creepingvine rewards him with an ecstatic stream of thankyouthankyouthankyou. But he doesn’t like it so much in real life. And if Javert’s guessed right, he doesn’t like it when he’s just had a scare.

And Thenardier had a guy on his knees just over an hour ago. A guy so strong it took three men to hold him down. And if Javert hadn’t been there to stop them, who knows what those assholes might have done. Who knows if he’d ever hear from creepingvine again.

The apartment is suddenly very cold.

Javert rests his elbows on his knees and puts his face in his hands. He heaves a breath. This is supposed to be stress relief. It’s his sex life. His hobby. It’s not supposed to be his fucking _job_.

Who does he think he’s kidding? His sex life and his job have always been intertwined. He digs his fingertips into his temples.

Javert has over three hundred photos of creepingvine on his computer, each one carefully cropped to remove identifying details but each one hopelessly vulnerable in ways that can’t be photoshopped out. He’s bought creepingvine dildos and floggers and reams and reams of leather. And he must have written him thousands of messages since they started hooking up. Late-night jerkoff material, mostly: clumsy orders and filthy compliments. But sometimes they’ve just been idle thoughts and everyday complaints. creepingvine knows the coffee machine at the station’s been broken for nearly two months now. Javert knows that creepingvine takes his coffee black if he has it at all but that he tries to stick to just water. He shouldn’t know that. He’s supposed to know as little as possible.

creepingvine is still offline. Javert opens up the messenger and winces at his string of horny, typo-strewn messages.

He writes: “Maybe we should stop talking on here.”

The words are easier to type than he expected. He breathes in and out carefully, staring at them. He tries to imagine a future without furtive shots of biceps and abs and thighs, all lovingly marked and tastefully cropped for his pleasure. No more photos of creepingvine’s lips stretched around a plastic dick or his fingers teasing himself open. Breaking it off is the professional thing to do. It’s the right thing to do.

Javert swallows and hits delete. The professional thing to do vanishes, first letter by hesitant letter and then in a whoosh of lost words.

He tries again, fingers moving shakily on the keys.

“Hi, sorry about those earlier messages,” he writes. “Don’t know about you, but I had a hell of a night.” 

It’s a bad idea. It’s a catastrophically bad idea. But Javert’s exhausted and he has a feeling he’s not the only one. He hits send. Then he stares at the screen and waits for the walls of his apartment to come crashing down or for some hidden alarm to start blaring or choppers to start circling over his building.

Nothing happens. His heart is pounding and this is dangerously stupid, but the dangerously stupid words are already out there. He’s already broken every rule he set for himself. So he breaks another one, half-blind with adrenaline, just to see what it might feel like.

“This is going to sound crazy, but would you like to get a coffee?”

He hits send before he has a chance to think too hard about the implications of what he’s asking. If he’s wrong, it could ruin everything and if he’s right...

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, eyes still fixed on the screen. If he’s right, creepingvine won’t want anything to do with him. He’ll brush it away and he’ll go back to the safety of filthy messages and vague details superimposed over a memory. It’s a good system. Or at least, it’s a good enough system. Why ask for more than good enough?

This is why: Because on rare occasions, it pays to ask.

The red dot beside creepingvine’s username blinks to green. Three dots indicate that he’s typing. Despite everything: Despite Javert’s crazy string of messages, the late hour and the stressful night and the long silence, creepingvine is typing. He types for long minutes while Javert watches and imagines those deft fingers tapping out sentences that stretch into paragraphs. But when creepingvine finally hits send, there are only six words to show for it.

“I’ll have a glass of water.”

Javert’s fingers move faster than his brain. “You’ll take whatever I order for you.”

But he catches himself, deletes it and tries again. 

“Are you sure?”

Another long pause. creepingvine replies, “no.” And then, “I think so.” And then, “maybe.”

Javert exhales in a long, shaky breath. There’s a muted screaming somewhere in the back of his head. This is a bad idea and it could ruin everything. But the night’s been tough and his apartment’s cold and maybe some things are worth ruining if it means finding something better.

When he goes to bed, approximately twenty-three minutes later, Javert removes his gun and holster. Unclips his tie pin and sets it beside them on his night stand. He pulls off his tie and unbuttons his crisp white shirt, throwing them both in the laundry hamper. He toes off his boots and takes off his pants, folding them over the back of a chair. Then he sits on the edge of his bed in his shorts and tee-shirt and looks up at his cracked ceiling.

There are all sorts of questions Javert should be asking himself. He can hear them, sort of, hammering in the back of his mind. But they’re drowned out by the pleasant hum of a question that Javert has never had to ask himself before. Because tomorrow is Saturday and, against all possible odds, Javert has made plans to meet the guy he’s fucked and teased and tormented but never touched. It’s also the guy he might technically be supposed to arrest once they’re face to face, which could complicate matters.

Javert’s heart is racing. He can’t imagine falling asleep, even at this hour. There are decisions to be made and a terrifying new future to prepare for. But instead he’s wondering, with the peculiar giddiness of a middle-aged man who was never really a teenage boy, what he should wear for his date.


End file.
